


Attrition

by phoenix (PrettyRedEyes)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Mindscapes, Post-Canon, Stan's angry subconscious, the Pines are all safe and happy, triangle pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 21:19:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7949560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyRedEyes/pseuds/phoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of everything Stanley’s subconscious is fractured, damaged and unstable, yet that doesn’t stop it from attacking the intruder with every memory he touches. Or, a broken dream demon fights a losing war against a mind that rejects him, while those of the waking world remain blissfully unaware.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Attrition

**Author's Note:**

> in which Bill is still around post-series, but remains completely ineffectual

 

Bill Cipher’s hell is a gray boat, floating endlessly on a monochrome ocean, an unknowable stretch of a journey with neither a beginning nor ending. 

 

And that wouldn’t be the worst part, he  _ is  _ a dream demon--an avatar of unlimited power (before) and chaotic unpredictability (though  _ he  _ was always the one in control)--but the boat’s voyage is calm and methodical, and even the overcast skies show no sign of coming storms. There is a  _ peace  _ here among the wisps of pale fog and black waves, that fact alone managing to rub him raw in the worst possible way, and the passing of time was as unnoticeable as it always was in the indeterminate murk of the mindscape.

And it hadn’t seemed  _ all  _ bad in first moment of  _ reawareness  _ hovering above the ship’s prow; there was something aesthetically pleasing about the twisted structure of that mindscape, distorted and unhinged like a quartered cadaver with the limbs sewn back on at the wrong spots. That had been the case when it was a broken shack in a dark wood, and it was still the case now, though Bill would have preferred a little more color. The “boat” in actuality was a massive naval vessel--patched together from multiple different shades and textures of wood--and where the masts and wheelhouse should have been was Stanford’s shack, foundation fused to the deck as though the boards had somehow melted together. 

And yet, the vessel wasn’t completely ruined, but in a slow state of repair. There were holes that were noticeably patched, newer planks that sat out of place amongst the old boards, and unidentifiable black stains partially scrubbed away. Even the obvious  _ wounds  _ of the ship were slowly fading--infinitesimally--over time, like an old white scar upon the skin. 

 

No captain with any sense would have ever let this messed up wreck of a ship sail in the real world, and yet it sailed nonetheless. 

Eternally.

 

After a quick once-over, Bill saw fit to test the size of the mindscape, floating into the thick fog only to arrive back at the boat in minutes no matter which direction he strayed. The mindscape’s exterior was limited in scale thanks to its unpredictability, it seemed. The shack was a different story; it was bigger on the inside. Entering the boat took him to the same escher-esque maze of stairways and doors that the world possessed before, but now there seemed to be more orderly structure and less rotted wood, and more of the halls were shrouded in a dark haze that commonly came with forgetfulness. Several doors were ajar and leading into white void of nothing that was a harsh reminder of how Bill came to be here in the first place, of the gall, the  _ deception  _ that a mere mortal had inflicted him with. 

 

Stanley had to suffer, that was for certain. 

He couldn’t just kill him, not after everything he’d done. The demon had imprisoned little Mabel for fighting him twice, reduced Stanford to a trophy for his rebellion; it was clear that Stanley deserved something special to pay for his crime once Bill returned to power.

 

But the mindscape wasn’t letting him leave. 

Bill’s powers were sapped from his own near death and this world reactively pressed down on him with an oppressive force every time he attempted to conjure an exit, the sound of creaking timbers verging on menacing. The only door that even resembled an exit was destroyed, remnants of a familiar blue flame flickering along the busted boards. Stan’s mind had reinforced itself into a nearly self-contained reality, not allowing anything to enter or leave.

 

Fine. Fine! If Stanley was going to be so  _ difficult _ , the Bill would just have to tear him apart from the inside and escape that way! He’d regret ever getting in the way when he woke up to find his brother’s neck under his hands!

But...it never came to that.

Hostile takeover was about as successful as conjuring an escape, and if nothing else, it made the mindscape...angry. The cold, stagnant air became uncomfortably warm and stifling. Wooden walls twisted and undulated unnaturally, a long, drawn out groan echoing from their depths. It took what seemed like ages for the world to calm again. 

 

Frustrated with another dead-end, Bill drifted into Stanley’s memories in search of another idea.

 

The halls here were a maze unto themselves, even with the worn labels displayed across them, and from the outside gave no indication of whether the memory was intact or not. Sometimes the knowledge in those memories was beyond repair, blank white or partially faded into the same black haze that left entire corridors impossible to enter. Some memories he simply watched all the way through, searching for some hint as to how to make his host come undone. And occasionally, he would try to enter one. 

 

This memory was a relatively simple one: a pimply-faced teenage Stanley Pines--fifteen, not quite sixteen--was sitting with his brother on a swingset on an empty beach, laughing at a joke Stanford made with nothing but carefree ignorance. If this was how he was before the jaded, trickster conman, then there was still a foothold to be had--if only like this. 

 

The world of that memory shifted and rippled when Bill entered it, pulsing through the air with an unseen wave. The pale haze and blurriness that lingered over everything in the mindscape seemed to clear to become more sharp and natural, and an artificial warmth from a nonexistent summer sun rose up simultaneously with the change. 

Not even an instant into the scene had passed before the air filled with static like an overplayed VCR tape and then suddenly everything froze in place as though it were simply a movie to be paused on a whim.  The rolling waves suddenly halted, birds in flight silenced and motionless, and even the memory of Ford stared blankly at nothing.

 

The only thing that hadn’t paused was Stanley. 

 

The teen was staring directly at Bill, an expression of utter fury and awareness he absolutely should not have spread across his face. And it was immediately clear that this was no longer simply a memory, but a fragment of Stanley’s subconscious, and that meant…

 

The brief tightening of the boy’s fists around the chains of the swing was the only warning Bill got before he leapt up from his seat with the suddenness of a charging bull, intent on the dream demon. Stanley  _ knew  _ one some level who he was, even if his full consciousness wasn’t truly aware he was there, and that was enough to invoke his ire. His swing froze as it tilted into the air, along with the sand kicking up underneath his heels and Bill tried to withdraw back to the doorway. This anger was...just a little too familiar.

 

He was just a little too slow. 

 

Stanley slammed him violently into the surf and soundly pummeled him. 

 

It wasn’t the same as last time; the burning and crumbling of his form, shattering, the apparent ceasing of existence. The pain was familiar though.

Everything faded to a bank whiteness, but there was no End.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later Bill awakened to a grey boat, sailing a monochrome ocean. 

  
  



End file.
